I support Compassion



a room that smells
like a hospital. Like a crack in the clock.
Unmistakable, in the humming dark corners.
a black brain claw with rotting thoughts
in its grip. Sharp coal-charred grip
a different Hand-- each mind finds its own
version of obvious folly
always vengeful, twisting fingers in the slimy, gray peel:
occipital temporal always grasping never giving
it remains-
ever true to the sleeper and false
to us. I close the door.

The crazy-knuckles crunch
(as real as electric locks)
because yesterday, they crunched. I felt
the popped frail thoughts
and shattered rigid dreams, fading fragments litter my pillow.
Waking spells strangled relentless clenching
The slow tight roar, squeezing visions, until
the world is a flying powdery dust.
Let me at least rebuild the hallway!
Where is it?
Mop the floor, try again tomorrow.

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